of dreams and coffee shops
by cametoread
Summary: hermione's haven


On an exceptionally cold morning late in December a young woman came out of the apartment complex she shared with her friend and walked briskly, as though being chased, towards the nearby Starbucks café.

She had successfully evaded her usual crowd at the French bakery down the street. It was a charming little shop selling delicious rolls, breads and pastries and normally a very pleasant place. But today…today it would be unbearable.

Early this morning, she had woken up gasping at the remnants of a dream. Choosing to ignore it for as long as possible she rushed through her morning routine. She quickly brushed her teeth, took a shower, and quickly threw on some random clothing she had strewn around in her room—a green turtleneck and black jeans. And then she hastily made her way to the door, grabbing her purse, a long black overcoat, and a white scarf from the closet near the door. It engulfed her, giving her the appearance of being lost in the thick fabric. She took her keys out and locked the door, turning the doorknob once more to make sure that it was indeed locked.

She looked remarkably like a fragile china doll—exceptionally petite with beautiful dark eyes and wavy brown hair cut to her shoulders. Her thin, pale little face was Her hair was at the moment messily tied into a bun, with her face devoid of any makeup. She had no time to fix herself up in her rush to avoid them.

As she walked, the chill in the air was palpable: the cool briskness, the emptiness, and the lack of activity in the usually bustling street. It was grey in the faint sunlight peering through the clouds, as though the sun itself could not even bear to show its face to her. It seemed to her, in an instant, an empty and desolate place to be. It was where she belonged, she decided, amidst the howling wind and the austere streets. "Sometimes, some solitude is wonderful," she thought. "Here, out in the empty street, I don't need to face anyone; here I can be myself, without fear of being tormented since there is nobody there to do so…nobody."

The truth was that she had been so lost and afraid during the last couple weeks—ever since that man had said to her those frightful words. She wanted to get away from him! She began to walk faster, her careful steps seemed to have turned into a frenzy; she even felt strangely numb; in that terrible cold she was numb. Driven by compulsion, she wrapped her coat around herself even more; she drowned even more in its thick folds, clutching onto it as her lifeline. She knew she could be stronger than this—she had to.

She had not far to go. There was only half a block until she would reach her haven—the Starbucks café. It was a wonderful place that assuaged her tormented mind, with the aroma of freshly brewed coffees and the voices of Johnny Cash, Ray Charles, Qtis, etc. As soon as she opened the door, letting a chilly breeze in, she could feel the café's calming effects on her overwrought senses. Here there were no mocking faces, no ulterior motives, no cages.

Inside it was like a lounge, with an earthy atmosphere. There were tables, wooden chairs, and leather couches scattered throughout. There were only a few people there, sipping their coffee and reading newspapers and using their laptops. She approached the counter, preparing to order.

The cashier was a young man, in his mid-twenties, and of a thin frame. He was wearing the standard uniform designated for all Starbucks employees, the dark shirt and the black apron with his name tag on the front. Nathan. His pale angular face was dotted with acne, with hollow cheeks, and bushy eyebrows, out of which gazed dark green eyes. But there was something very special about him; there was a peacefulness in his eyes—a peace she desperately craved. She found herself secretly envying him.

He turned to her, taking in her disheveled appearance, and her thin, little face staring up at him looking at him with some strange emotion—almost like yearning, he thought—and asked politely, "What would you like to order, Miss?"

She ordered the coffee of the week.

"And what is your name?" he inquired, for future reference when he had her coffee ready.

"Hermione."

She paid the cashier for her coffee, taking out her wallet and digging through for the $3.19 the coffee had cost. After a few minutes of waiting, her coffee was ready.

She carefully wrapped her fingers around the hot container, carefully carrying it to a chair in the corner. Sniffing deeply, she discovered it to be her favorite—the Sumatra blend. She loved its intensity—it was incredibly smooth and aromatic—and reminded her of her home, her family. It brought back good memories—memories of times when she wasn't so lost.


End file.
